


Pair of Fools

by WellReadPenguin



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellReadPenguin/pseuds/WellReadPenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll be the hypocrite. The hypocrite who lied to protect another, while she lied to protect herself. Better a hypocrite than a coward. Post-47 Seconds SPOILER WARNING</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: "Castle" and all its wonderful characters are the property of ABC and Andrew Marlowe. Much as I enjoy playing with them, I unfortunately do not own them. Please don't sue me.

He pours himself a drink – scotch on the rocks – and sits in the dark.

He doesn't want to brood because brooding is conceding the point to her. He won't brood on her account. No, he's not brooding. He's raging.

"There are some things that are better not being remembered." That's what she said wasn't it? It wasn't that she didn't remember. She just didn't want to remember his love. Fine. So be it. He can forget her just as easily.

He can play that game. But this time his own game. He's done playing hers.

She told him she needed time. He gave it. She told him she needed space. He gave it. She told him she had a wall. He pledged a sledge hammer.

And what did she give in return? Silence. Lies.

She lied.

She looked him in the eye and lied.

And maybe he's a hypocrite because he's been lying to her as well. So be it. He'll be the hypocrite. The hypocrite who lied to protect another, while she lied to protect herself.

Better a hypocrite than a coward.

Better a hypocrite than a heartless, manipulative, misleading bitch.

Does Lanie know? He wonders. Do they get together over drinks and laugh about poor lovesick Rick following her around like a puppy while she dangles a treat she has no intention of giving just out of reach?

Can she really be that callous? Can she really be that cruel?

He'd thought no, but now...now what can he know for sure about her? What can he trust when she's proven him so wrong?

All that talk of "next time" and the teasing and the nudging and the smiles over coffee. What were they? All a joke to her? Some funny story she could tell her friends about all the ways she brought a famous author to his knees before her?

He wants to do something reckless. He wants to show her that the joke is on her, to prove that her rejection doesn't cut him to the bone. He wants to pretend that she didn't rip out his heart.

Instead he opens his laptop and pulls up a blank document. And he writes something. Anything. He writes incoherently and without sense, anger and pain poured out onto the page. He curses her. He curses himself, his foolishness. And he says his goodbye. A black and white goodbye note to her. To them. To partners. To a pair of fools.


	2. The Bitter Switch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for The Limey promo

Love is not a switch, you can't just turn it off.

He said watch me. And he was wrong.

He can't turn it off. Because when he looks at her, when he sees her smile, he aches. And when he sees that smile falter, questions written all over her face, doubt and confusion drawing lines around her lips, he aches.

This is no way to live. Yes, the work is still fulfilling. The victims still move him and the mysteries still demand solving. But this is no way to live. He can't turn it off. He can't turn off his love for her.

He tries to freeze her out. To just be indifferent. But seeing her every day, looking beautiful and alive, eyes lighting up at his presence, it's like a fresh kick in the gut. So he kicks back. He jabs with sharp little asides. He punches below the belt, flaunting women he won't actually touch just to watch her squirm. And he knows it bothers her, but it bothers him more. Makes him hit harder. Because this is her fault.

She can't have it both ways. She can't look at him with desire in her eyes, when her silence, her lies, have made it clear to him that she doesn't actually want him. She can't laugh in the face of his pain by humoring him with meaningless flirtation. And she certainly can't look so injured when he shows how willing he is to move on. It's not fair. It's not right. And he won't allow it anymore.

If she wants to act like she cares, then he'll make her pay for it. And even though her drawn face and sad eyes make his pain that much worse, it is worth it, because it's better than the lie. It is better than the unattainable happiness she taunts him with when she smiles. If he has to suffer anyways, then he'll make her suffer too.

"So where do you draw your inspiration for writing, Ricky? Your books are so – detailed."

His eyes snap up from his plate and glances across the table at his date. This one is a blonde, short, busty and utterly vapid. She keeps trying to run a heeled-foot up his leg but he feigns ignorance. She's throwing herself at him. But he's not interested. He can't be bothered to be interested.

He clears his throat. "Uh, you know, Elise, it really comes from..." In all honesty he doesn't know what to say, because the only writing he's done lately has been inspired by anger and heartache. But he won't tell her that. "People. People are just fascinating. They, uh, they really fascinate me."

She twirls her hair and leans forward to give him a more clear view of her breasts. "Fascinating," she repeats. He has to wonder if she even knows what that word means.

His phone buzzes, sparing him the indignity of saying or hearing another "fascinating."

"Excuse me, one moment. I should take this."

She looks disappointed. He can't be bothered to care.

"Castle," he tries to sound as perky as possible. Beckett is on the line, a body has dropped and she gives him the address. He flirts with the idea of blowing her off, telling her he's busy. But another idea pops into his head.

"Want to go see some of my inspiration?" he covers the mouth piece and asks.

The blonde flashes a predatory smile and answers, "Oh, that sounds like so much fun."

"We'll be right there," he tells Beckett, eyes still on his date, busty and vapid, but still useful.

No, he can't turn off his love. But he can turn up the bitterness and try to drown it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic really was supposed to be just a one-shot, but Castle had other ideas and forced me to continue. And of course Beckett now wants in on the action, though I'm thinking of doing a separate companion piece with her perspective so that this can remain Castle's playground.
> 
> You know the drill, reviews are always welcome, even something as simple as "like" or "dislike" lets me know how I'm doing.
> 
> Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone


	3. Déjà Vu

She actually feels ready.

She catches his eye and it's that "Ah ha!" moment her therapist told her not to expect.

She's seen what can happen when you wait too long. She's see the trauma of possibilities lost. And she's ready to dive in.

And he looks ready too... _Looked ready. ___

But now? Now he's gone. Walked away with a casual brushoff that felt anything but casual. And she's left with a sinking feeling in her gut. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

It's like déjà vu. She remembers the last time she felt ready. Two years ago, though she can't believe it's been that long. She had finally shaken off the doubt, the doubt that Richard Castle, The Richard Castle might want her as something more than just a conquest. She had built up the courage to put herself out there, to commit herself to more than just casual flirting and sexual tension. And then he was gone. Off to the Hamptons with his ex-wife, with no warning, just that devastating curse of bad timing.

She knows he was going to say something after the Takeover bomb. His eyes were shining with something. She knows because she met his gaze for every second, unblinking, full of hope, barely able to contain the premature smile that ached to spread across her face. He spoke about not wanting to miss opportunities, and she allowed herself to believe that those opportunities might be with her.

They were interrupted, as usual, but there was a promise in his eyes. A promise of later. A promise of more.

And then, there wasn't.

There isn't.

He can hardly look at her now. When he does, when she catches him looking out of the corner of her eye, his gaze is harsh, pained. He holds himself stiff and away from her. His responses are short, his demeanor guarded.

Something changed, but she is painfully out of the loop. She's tumbling in a free fall of doubt and confusion and no small amount of hurt.

Because she is ready. She is so ready. And when he looks at her like that – with contempt – she feels her walls rise once more. All that progress undone with one glance. Because she can't bear to think about what could have changed. Or what that change could mean.

And that feeling in the pit of her stomach grows heavier...

It drops out completely when he shows up to a crime scene with a blonde bimbo in tow.

He has his arm draped over her shoulders. She seems to relish the contact, clinging firmly to his hip. He grins like a kid in a candy store.

And with harsh clarity she realizes that she read it all wrong. He wasn't talking about moving forward with her. He was talking about moving on without her.

But with that? With blonde bimbo #2 from an episode of CSI? Really?

She thinks she's going to be sick.

Sick that she waited so long. Sick that she missed her chance again. Sick that he can toss her aside so easily. Sick that he didn't have the guts to tell her to her face that he was done waiting. Because she could have said something. She could have told him that she was done waiting too.

He didn't give her a chance.

Instead he taunts her with the exact kind of woman that made her fear being his type.

And yes, this is taunting. Because he brings the bimbo back to the precinct – their space – and he dotes on her, touches her, hangs on her every frivolous word.

"Oh the murder board is so shiny."

"Oh this chair is so bendy."

"Oh Ricky you're so cute."

Every second is agony. Watching them is agony. And even as the initial hurt subsides with the shock, every little moment pricks like a pin, compounding until she wonders how much more she can take.

She swings back and forth between disgusted and crushed, finally settling on humiliated.

Because he keeps glancing at her, gauging her reactions, and try as she might, she can't hide how upset she is. He's made her vulnerable. He knows it. And she can't figure out why he looks so pained and pleased at the same time. She can't figure out why he wants to hurt her.

But most of all she can't shake the feeling that he's punishing her.

And it's déjà vu, as he walks out of the precinct in another's arms, once again leaving her standing in the middle of the bullpen staring after him like a lovesick fool. Blindsided and barely standing. Ready, but still alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - So Kate gets her say and the Misinterpretation Train is chugging along at full speed.
> 
> As always please review, the long ones are wonderful but the simple "like" or "dislike" is more than enough.
> 
> Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone


	4. Sleep

She can't sleep.

So when she's sitting at her desk in the bullpen, coffee-less and cranky, she blames him.

Him and the dumb blonde for wrecking her mood.

She called him out of habit this morning when they caught a new case in the early morning.

But she wished she hadn't, because the call jumped conspicuously to voice mail after two rings and she couldn't help the image that popped into her head – him, in bed, hair tousled, rolling over and grabbing his phone, checking the caller ID, seeing her name, her face and tapping "ignore," then turning back over and curling around the other body hidden under the sheets, a tuft of blonde hair striking against the dark pillowcase.

And again she wishes she hadn't called as she tries to scrub that image from her mind with phone records and financial reports.

"Yo Beckett, find anything?" Esposito calls from the other end of the bullpen on his way towards her.

She looks up and he slows abruptly.

"Alright?"

She's scowling...Oh.

She closes her eyes and pushes it all away, tries to look normal, not like she wants to throw something at the murder board. She schools her features but she's sure that she's failing because Espo is giving her a look. The I-see-right-through-you look.

She changes the subject. Back to the case. Always back to the case. Safe ground. Solid ground. Cases she can handle.

He goes along with it mercifully, though she winces at the concerned glances he and Ryan keep giving her. Like they are afraid she's made of glass...Which she is when it comes to him and his mixed signals. But they don't need to know that. She doesn't want them to know that. What she wants is to finish this case, go home, have a glass of wine and sleep.

But she can't sleep, and it's all his fault.

She went out for drinks the previous night. She could have done a hell of a lot more than that too, had she been so inclined. Extracurricular activities with Colin would have been a more palatable excuse for the bags under her eyes at least. She didn't though. Her date with the handsome Detective-Inspector from England was pleasant enough. But he wasn't Castle...

And somehow the whole thing felt like a betrayal.

She doesn't know why, since he was the one off gallivanting with the bimbo. She has no claim to him, and he has no claim to her.

Yet it still felt like she was cheating...that she's being cheated on.

It stings like she's being cheated on. And it's that sting of inadequacy, the thought that she's not enough for him, that he's found someone else, someone  _better,_ that keeps her up at night.

\-----

His buzzing phone wakes him. But he doesn't have the will to get out of bed yet. So he grabs at it blindly until the ringing stops, hoping that he managed to hit the ignore button and doesn't have some poor person hanging on the line listening to him sleep. He digs his face deeper into the nest of pillows around him and groans.

He just doesn't want to get up. Not yet. Because when he does he'll have to see her. Beckett. Kate. Beautiful, extraordinary, cruel Kate.

She wants to talk. She wants to  _talk._

He doesn't think he can handle a talk with her, because he has a sneaking, aching, suspicion that it'll be The Talk. The It's-Not-You-It's-Me Talk. And much as he already knows, much as he already feels the pain of her rejection, he can't handle her making it real. Concrete. In words. Irrefutable words.

He doesn't need to hear it given voice. He doesn't need to suffer the indignity of her pitying eyes, her victim voice. Her patronizing tone as she hopes that they can "just be friends."

Because they can't. He endured too long as "just friends" when he'd thought there had been an implicit "for now" attached to that description. But now he can't be her friend. He's not even sure he can be her partner.

He'd almost hoped that flaunting Jacinda might...he doesn't even know...show her what she is missing, show her that there are plenty of women who want him. That he  _is_  desirable. He'd hoped that that maybe the thought of him being chased by another might convince her that she was wrong.

But it didn't. She was too busy making googly eyes at the impossibly handsome Brit. She let him infiltrate the team - their team. She went off dancing with him. She got all dressed up for him. And he can just see it in his head, him holding her close as they sway on the dance floor. His hand at the small of her back. Her arm nestled on his shoulder, her hand resting at the back of his neck, her fingers toying with the hair at his collar, her cheek brushing against his beard as she leans in to whisper some teasing comment in his ear...

The surge of jealousy ignites his muscles and he turns over violently with a growl. He wants to punch that...that...jerk. For having permission to dance with her like that, for having what he can't. So he punches his pillow with a satisfying whop instead.

And suddenly he's mad at himself for turning Jacinda away when she practically tried to break down the door to get into his loft, his bedroom, his bed. He's mad that he let the thought, the memory of his love for Kate Beckett hold him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Oh our poor dynamic duo. Just can't get on the same page can they.
> 
> In case you hadn't noticed, I've decided to continue this with chapters that serve almost as companions to the episodes (as far as I can go along with them) perhaps with some speculation towards the next episode based on promos - I'm spoiler free so there will be no conscious spoilage on my part. There will be at least one more chapter related to the Limey coming soon. So keep an eye out. After that it'll depend on if I get sudden inspiration before the next episode in couple weeks.
> 
> You know the drill, please review. As always "Like" or "Dislike" is more than enough. I want to hear what you have to say.
> 
> Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Well, 47 Seconds happened...and this is what you get. Angsty, angry Castle. Big big big thanks to dave-ck who once again motivated me to get this finished and edited my stupid mistakes.
> 
> As I always say, reviews are very much appreciated. Even a simple "like" or "dislike" warms my heart, and we all could use some heart warming this week.
> 
> Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone


End file.
